Author Jonathan Lethem’s beloved New York Mets couldn’t help but find their way, in however brief a mention, into his acclaimed novels Fortress of Solitude and Motherless Brooklyn and now the upcoming Dissident Gardens. A few years back, the Brooklyn-born Lethem, today a creative writing professor at Pomona, went so far as to co-author the “very eccentric” Believeniks!: 2005: The Year We Wrote a Book About the Mets, for which he and Christopher Sorrentino, writing under pseudonyms, watched every game of the season and immersed themselves in Mets minutiae. “It was really a book,” Lethem says, “about the disproportion of attention that fandom represents.”

During Occupy Wall Street in 2011, Lethem makes a personal protest against the newly announced name of Citi Field, which replaced the Mets’ Shea Stadium.
Photo by David Shankbone

When it comes to the writing of books, baseball has long benefitted from a disproportion of attention. Visit just about any American bookstore, and you’ll find tomes about the old ball game invariably make up the largest share of the sports books section, and baseball is at the center of a surprising number of novels as well. Within this vast field, Sagehen writers of late have been holding down more than their share of the shelf space.

Among our scribes, Sports Illustrated writer Chris Ballard ’95 is master of the mass market. His well-reviewed One Shot at Forever: A Small Town, an Unlikely Coach and a Magical Baseball Season is the story of a quirky teacher leading a team from tiny Macon, Ill. to the state championships. As Booklist puts it: “Ballard writes very well and avoids the usual pitfalls of the ‘inspirational’ story, the cloying platitudes and rah-rah nonsense. These kids were simply good ballplayers coached by a guy with an open mind, a lot of common sense and a zest for fun.”

Just released in paperback, One Shot is slated to become a movie from the same company that did the hit Jackie Robinson film, 42.

Ballard, one-time sports editor of the Claremont Collage, credits Pomona as a “great incubator” for his writing. “Lynn Sweet, the English-teacher-turned- coach in the book, was a huge believer in
questioning the status quo, seeing the bigger picture and relating to students as human beings,” says Ballard. “That’s a lot of what I loved about Pomona, especially coming from a place like UCSB [Ballard had transferred] where I used to register for classes by telephone.”

And then there’s the relative rookie, Kyle Beachy ’01. His well-received 2009 debut novel, The Slide, is set in the summer after college when 22- year-old Potter Mays moves back into his parents’ St. Louis home and “even his passion for baseball fails to halt his slide into the morass,” as Booklist notes. The sport’s key role in The Slide is not surprising for a writer who grew up as a devout Cardinals fan, but Beachy says his next novel will not get quite so involved with the game he loves.

“I’m watching this season from a nice distance, currently, and I’d like to keep it [there],” says Beachy, now living in Chicago, where he teaches English and creative writing at Roosevelt University. “Writing about baseball for me means having to look really hard and then probably not enjoying it in the way I am now.”

Garrett Harker ’89 at his Fenway-adjacent bistro the Eastern Standard.

Technically, the restaurant Eastern Standard is located a few blocks away from Fenway Park in Boston’s Kenmore Square neighborhood. But as owner Garrett Harker ’89 will attest, the legendary ballpark’s shadow looms large on his brasserie-style eatery, literally and otherwise.

Red Sox fans walking to Fenway from the closest stop on “the T”—Boston’s subway line—can’t get there without passing Eastern Standard’s big red awning. For an upscale bistro in a sea of beer-soaked baseball bars, the location can be both a blessing and a curse (to use a phrase with unfortunate connotations for Red Sox Nation).

Since he opened shop in 2005, though, Harker has deftly straddled the line in appealing to a diverse clientele of foodies and foam-fingered Fenway faithful. GQ magazine even gave his establishment, decked out in dark wood and leather, the unusual designation of “most elegant sports bar in the country.”

When he was first scouting Boston properties, Harker was intrigued by the track record of the Sox’s then-new President and CEO Larry Lucchino. In the early ’90s Lucchino oversaw the creation of Camden Yards in Harker’s hometown of Baltimore—another example of an urban ballpark situated in a less-than urbane neighborhood. The executive’s efforts to build ties with local institutions helped revitalize the downtown area, and Harker thought that Lucchino could work similar magic in Kenmore Square.

“The Red Sox’ old ownership had this insular idea that what happened outside the green walls didn’t apply to them,” Harker says. “I could tell that Larry understood that a rising tide lifts all boats. He wanted to enhance the whole experience of going out to a game.”

To prepare his staff for Kenmore Square’s hodge-podge of customers, Harker has instituted his own form of spring training every year. In special weekly meetings, everyone from the general managers to the busboys present reports on topics ranging from the importance of cocktail bitters to the neuroscience of body language. He even sends employees on trips to Maine and Cape Cod to study different areas’ cultural vibes and then report back on their findings.

“Garrett is all about giving us the chance to share knowledge,” says manager Deena Marlette, who has a master’s degree in education and runs a book club for staff. “It’s his philosophy that you ultimately learn the most by teaching others.”

Harker, who majored in English, says the approach goes back to his liberal arts training at Pomona. But if he hopes to “spark a little passion” and spur intellect, there is business sense at work as well. Cultivating conversationalists is another way to connect with customers, something more than a garnish to his menu of surf, turf and the occasional braised lamb shank.

Baseball, of course, is a key part of an Eastern Standard education. Before every home game the managers brief their servers on the visiting team and slip one-page cheat sheets into all of the billfolds. At this spring’s staff kick-off meeting, held at Fenway, Red Sox “fast facts” were passed out, former Boston Globe sportswriter Jackie MacMullan offered some motivational remarks, and Lucchino even said a few words about the restaurant’s important role in Kenmore Square. (Harker is on a first-name basis with several of the Red Sox’ top brass.)

Just like on the diamond, spring training has paid off during the regular season, in the form of Eastern Standard’s above-average employee retention and, most notably, one of the city’s strongest reputations for service. Eastern Standard regular T. Barton Carter draws a parallel between bistro and baseball. “You must be able to handle any situation with that same consistency and attention to detail,” says Carter, a Boston University communications professor who holds season tickets to weekend games at Fenway. “The only difference is that the Sox unfortunately aren’t as consistent as Eastern Standard.”

In recent years, the spot’s success has spurred further culinary growth in Kenmore Square, including Harker’s own Island Creek Oyster Bar and the Hawthorne cocktail bar, which he opened in 2010 and 2011, respectively. “There’s a neighborhood here,” he says. “A decade ago, nobody would have thought it possible.”

Life as a Fenway-area restaurateur does force you to always have an eye on the standings, and even the day’s box score. During our interview Harker kept glancing at one of Eastern Standard’s TVs to monitor a rain delay that ultimately sent thousands of fans onto the streets and back into his establishments. (Worse still, it happened in the sixth inning, after the ballpark stops serving alcohol.) “When the Red Sox are in first, it’s rib-eyes and red wine,” he says. “When they’re struggling, like last year [Boston’s first losing season since 1997], it’s burgers and beers.”

It’s a time-honored American tradition, fathers and sons going out to a ballgame, cheering for the home team, buying some peanuts and Cracker Jack. But few dads are as adventurous and driven as Mike Luery ’77, who undertook a 16-year odyssey to visit every Major League Baseball stadium in North America with his son, Matt. During that baseball pilgrimage, Luery would see his son go from boyhood to adulthood, passing through the turbulence of adolescence on the main part of the journey. It was a rite of passage that sorely tested their relationship and could have easily ended in disaster.

“You know, it can be difficult being trapped in a hotel room for a week with a teenager,” says Luery, with stunning understatement. “I just thought as he got older, what better way for a father and son to bond than to be on the road, and have baseball as our map?”

Luery, an award-winning TV news investigative journalist who has taken on the Ku Klux Klan and exposed cocaine abuse, retells the father-son saga in his recent book, Baseball Between Us. In honest but sometimes unsparing detail, Luery lays bare the generational tensions and personality clashes between two opinionated travelers, one a compulsive and fastidious planner who dreaded being late for the first pitch, the other a free spirit who would risk missing a flight if he could just sleep in a little longer. Most parents with teenagers might have balked at the idea from the start. In the words of the great Yogi Berra: “You’ve got to be very careful if you don’t know where you are going because you might not get there.”

But Luery can be a “stubborn cuss,” as a friend bluntly puts it. For him, love of family and love of baseball are inextricably linked. Baseball is not just a pastime, it’s a legacy—one that he inherited from his own father and “baseball buddy,” Robert Luery, who took him to the World Series at Yankee Stadium in 1963 when he was 8. Sure, the Dodgers with Sandy Koufax on the mound swept the Yankees that year, and little Mike cried all the way home, but baseball had gotten in his blood.

Once he became a father, he wanted his boy to share the passion, but the conversion would not be so magical. The first time he took his family to a ballgame was an admitted flop. It was 1994, to see the St. Louis Cardinals at Busch Stadium. The kids, Matt, 5, and his older sister Sarah, 8, were tired and hungry; his wife, Carol, was bored. Yet, the irrepressible Mr. Luery vowed to take his reluctant brood to a ballgame in every city they visited.

Luery became Matt’s Little League coach and continued taking him to games as a boy. In 2005, when Matt was 16, they embarked on their baseball expedition in earnest. Their mission: to visit parks and places they had never been to before. That year, the duo started out from their hometown in Sacramento, where Luery is a reporter for the NBC affiliate KCRA-TV, and flew to Detroit to watch the Tigers trounce the San Francisco Giants on a warm night at Comerica Park. There was no turning back.

To no parents’ surprise, the trip confirmed that teenagers excel at sulking, sleeping and scoffing at their elders. (Informed that Wrigley Field was built in 1914, Matt says, “Wow, Dad, that’s even older than you are.”) Luery and his son argued over almost everything: politics, history and especially what music to play on long car rides, classic rock versus rap. (“Dad, I’m tired of listening to all those dead guys.”) All along the way, Matt chafed at being used as a “prop” for another in his father’s endless series of snapshots. “By taking a picture,” the teen declared, “you are altering the authenticity of the moment.”

The pair also managed to share some good times. Matt, who graduated last year from USC with a degree in architecture, appreciated the design and urban planning of the stadiums. (Target Field in Minnesota gets high marks because “you don’t need a car to get there.”) And the teenager was thoroughly charmed by a chance meeting with former Dodger great Maury Wills.

In the end, father and son grew closer, and wiser. Matt learned to savor the slow pace of baseball games and really admire Jimi Hendrix. (“Dad, you may be a dinosaur but you rock.”) And Mike learned to be more flexible as a father, less quick to condemn, more willing to accept the differences between generations. From his son, he learned the “value of serendipity,” of going places without a compass, doing things without a blueprint: “Dad, the beauty of the trip is sometimes you get lost and you end up in a better place.”

The final stats: 16 years, 32 ballparks, 43,000 miles. Matt Luery, now 24, is grateful for all the time he and his dad spent together, even if they had disagreements “every now and then.” That’s what he wrote in a loving epilogue to his father’s book which, in the end, earned its positive subtitle: “A Roadmap to a Winning Father/Son Relationship.”

One of the most moving moments of the trip had nothing to do with baseball, directly. Luery was anxious for his son to see his childhood haunts in Stamford, Conn., a prosperous suburb about 30 miles from Manhattan. He was devastated to find his old home turned into a “foreclosure rat-trap,” boarded up and vandalized.

Later, his dismay deepened when visiting the gravesite of his sister, who had died at age 20 in a car crash. It was overgrown with weeds and crusted with dirt. The hard-charging, fast-talking reporter was reduced to tears, down on his knees, trying vainly to restore his sister’s nameplate. Matt instinctively moved to comfort his father, with reassuring words and a gentle hand on the shoulder. For once, the child was father to the man. Then they got back on the road to Shea Stadium, where that night the father and son watched the Mets shut out the Marlins, 3-0.

“For me, baseball has always been the fabric that holds us together,” says Mike, who got his start in broadcasting as a deejay at KSPC. “No matter how bad of a day you had, no matter what happened in the world, no matter how many losses, you always had comfort in baseball.”

Mike Luery’s Top 10 Ballparks

1) AT&T Park, San Francisco Giants Splash hits into the beautiful bay.

2) PNC Park, Pittsburgh Pirates Take a water taxi to the game.

3) Fenway Park, Boston Red Sox Tradition runs deep.

4) Oriole Park, Baltimore Orioles Enjoy barbecue at ex-player Boog Powell’s eatery.

5) Comerica Park, Detroit Tigers Life-size outfield replicas of Cobb, Kaline and Horton.

6) Target Field, Minnesota Twins Take light rail from airport to the park.

7) Coors Field (Denver), Colorado Rockies Great view of the Rocky Mountains.

8)Busch Stadium, St. Louis Cardinals The Gateway Arch makes an awesome backdrop.

9) Citizens Bank Park, Philadelphia Phillies Take the subway with the fanatic fans.

10) Progressive Field, Cleveland Indians Park filled with monuments to legendary players.

Director David S. Ward ’67, in center.

A great many things that seemed great in 1989 don’t seem especially so in 2013. Paula Abdul sent three songs to No. 1 that year, for starters, and there is also the matter of the miles upon unfortunate miles of acid-washed denim that were sold to people who had, at the time, no real reason to know better. So it is saying something about David S. Ward’s Major League that this 1989 film still feels fresh and, in some places, even oddly prescient today.

Yes, its double-knit uniforms look a little dated, and its stars are not nearly what they were 24 years ago—Charlie Sheen, the film’s comic center, is a mumbling, weirdly aggrieved advertisement for saying no to drugs; Corbin Bernsen, that era’s answer to George Clooney, now just seems a lot more like Corbin Bernsen. But Major League, somehow, is still Major League—a spectacularly quotable cult favorite still in heavy rotation on the endless bus rides of various minor league baseball teams and in the living rooms of baseball fans, and still one of the greatest and goofiest baseball movies ever made.

Both writer and director for Major League, Ward graduated from Pomona in 1967 and was a big-time Hollywood property not so very long afterward. His screenplay for 1973’s The Sting won him an Academy Award before he was 30 years old, and he has worked steadily and at his own pace since then. Steadily and very effectively—he was nominated for another Oscar for the screenplay to 1992’s Sleepless in Seattle, which he co-wrote with Nora Ephron and Jeff Arch, and has directed six films. The first of those was an adaptation of John Steinbeck’s novel Cannery Row. The second was a movie about a lousy Cleveland Indians team—built to fail by a cynical owner and comprised of misfits, flame-outs, broke-armed goofballs, ex-convicts with problems locating their pitches and Corbin Bernsens—that somehow gets itself together to make a pennant run. It’s the latter that still gets referenced on SportsCenter and among baseball fans.

“To this day,” Ward says, “I have people come up to me and quote lines from the movie that I’ve forgotten myself. There are these Major League trekkies out there, and it’s great. Every generation seems to discover it for itself.”

But the film that Major League newbies discover is not quite the same as the one that Ward made two and a half decades ago. It’s not that the movie is any less funny, or any less obviously a comedy—the slugger has a shrine to a demanding and arbitrary mini-deity named Jobu in his locker, the closer’s previous mound experience came in the California Penal League, and the jokes arrive with the regularity and pop of 95-mile-an-hour Clayton Kershaw fastballs. It’s just that, because Major League Baseball is so different, Major League seems different, too.

“When Major League came out, it was considered a broad comedy,” Ward says. “And I think it just seems less broad now.” Part of this is simply the game catching up to the movie. Ward had Sheen’s character, the control-challenged closer Ricky “Wild Thing” Vaughn, enter games from the bullpen to the strains of The Troggs’ “Wild Thing” as a sort of joke. “No pitcher came in to music, then,” Ward explains. “And then, after the movie, [Philadelphia Phillies reliever] Mitch Williams started coming into games to the same song.” Today, Ward’s “Wild Thing” gag barely even registers as such—in every ballpark at every level,
it seems every pitcher and hitter has his own walk-up music.

Even Major League’s central conceit—the intrinsic humor in a team built entirely around players who, for one reason or another, had no value to any other big league organization—is particularly fitting today. Teams like the Oakland Athletics and Tampa Bay Rays have built division winners by judiciously picking through and polishing players that other organizations left on the curb. “Because of the Moneyball approach, it seems more plausible that a team like this could win,” Ward said about the team of fictional misfits. “The Baltimore Orioles, to a certain extent, did it just last year.”

Ward grew up as an Indians fan in Ohio and Missouri, but moved west in his teens to Contra Costa County in the Bay Area, and later to Southern California. He brought his love of the Indians west with him, and while he downplayed his current fandom in our conversation, he quickly revealed that statement’s untruth, mourning Cleveland’s terrible luck—another aspect of Major League that hasn’t dated a bit—and assessing this year’s Indians team with a bullishness that reflected the benign chemical imbalance unique to fans.

While there are some obvious reasons why Major League has endured as it has—for starters: people like baseball and the jokes are good—Ward’s easy access to the wilder optimisms of the baseball fan brain is certainly a part of why the movie still works. The fantasy of a hopeless team finding some strange and sudden greatness is as old as the game itself, and utterly undated. “I just wanted to make an entertaining movie where the Indians actually won something,” Ward says.

He managed that, and more.

John Tsuei ’09 is emcee as Major League Baseball slugger Prince Fielder tours China in 2010.

Two years ago, the Yarkon Sports Complex in the Israeli city of Petah Tikva became the site of an unexpected Sagehen reunion. When Israel and Great Britain faced off in the qualifying round of the European Baseball Championship, three Pomona players—one now a graduating senior, the others veterans of the European baseball leagues—took the field in the ballpark outside Tel Aviv.

Guy Stevens ’13 was waiting around with his Israeli teammates when Michael Renery ’03 and Alex Smith ’03 passed by with the British squad. “One of them was like, ‘Which one of you guys goes to Pomona?’” Stevens recalls.

Such a confluence so far from Claremont might seem surprising, but it shouldn’t: Pomona has played an outsize role in the development of international baseball everywhere from Belgium to Taiwan. On the field, from the bench and in the boardroom, the contributions made by Pomona’s players, coaches and graduates have helped push the growth of baseball abroad.

It began in the 1970s, when Pomona-Pitzer baseball coach Mike Riskas started coaching in Europe. Riskas is now known for his work with the Greek national and Olympic teams, which began after his retirement from Pomona in 2003. After Riskas left, in stepped Frank Pericolosi, another coach with foreign experience.

When Pericolosi arrived at Pomona, he had already started working with the Brussels Kangaroos, a Belgian team in their country’s highest division. The team was struggling before Pericolosi arrived, recalls John Miller, a reporter for The Wall Street Journal who played and coached on the Kangaroos. “By himself, he created this electric atmosphere,” Miller says. Pericolosi’s intensity and determination set an example for the other players, and by the latter part of the season the team boasted a winning record.

Pericolosi later shifted his focus to youth and grassroots programs, creating opportunities for kids to play even where equipment is so scarce that one team used a sub-compact car to groom the infield. Since he was hired at Pomona, he’s spent summers in Sweden, Denmark and Italy, and completed his sabbatical coaching in Australia. His summer months are now dedicated to scouting, but Pericolosi has opened a door into the international leagues for his players. Every year, seniors receive contract offers from teams in Belgium, Sweden, the Czech Republic and even South Africa. Just this May, outfielders Nick
Gentili ’13 and Erik Munzer ’13 signed professional contracts to play in the Belgian league.

“I get a lot of kids from other colleges contacting me now,” Pericolosi says. “Coaches will come to me a lot from Europe, and ask me if I’ve got any guys.” Because American players often serve as coaches when they travel abroad, sending successful ballplayers overseas provides much-needed support for small organizations in atypical destinations.

Along with grassroots promotion, selling baseball overseas also requires the creation of professional leagues, says Peter Wermuth ’00, CEO of the Australian Baseball League. They generate attention for the sport and provide local heroes that developing players can aspire to be like.

Wermuth has the perfect background for a baseball ambassador, having developed a passion for the sport while growing up in Germany. At Pomona, he didn’t get much playing time for the Sagehens, but he brought home what he learned here each summer coaching teams in his native land. “I missed graduation because I had a baseball game in Germany,” Wermuth says.

Working for Major League Baseball since 2005, Wermuth was sent Down Under three years ago in a first-of-its-kind effort by MLB to kick-start a pro league overseas. Australia was chosen because the sport was comparatively strong there and the seasons of the Southern Hemisphere provide an advantage: Aussies playing pro in the U.S. can come back home to play and promote
the game in the American off-season. MLB’s goal is to expand the market for the sport—and for TV rights.

While the lack of baseball facilities in Australia has been an unexpected obstacle, Wermuth says the startup pro league has also been unexpectedly buoyed by the proximity to Asia, with the ABL drawing good players—and accompanying media attention—from nations such as Japan. The Australian effort has yet to break even, but “once we have demonstrated this works we’ll definitely look at other places,” says Wermuth.

Even with strong professional leagues, international competitions also are key because they “ignite passion” far beyond what national competitions can do, says Wermuth, pointing to the overseas popularity of the World Baseball Classic.

For most of the past year, John Tsuei ’09 worked for the 2013 edition of the World Baseball Classic. As team coordinator for Chinese Taipei (the name for Taiwan at international sporting events) he became the main point of contact between the team and the tournament.

A lifelong baseball fan, Tsuei examined the sport’s influence in Taiwan for his senior thesis at Pomona. That led to a Fulbright scholarship to study youth baseball culture in Japan, where Tsuei met the travel manager for the Los Angeles Dodgers. The connection eventually landed him a Major League Baseball internship in China. Tsuei later received an offer to work with the World Baseball Classic, and jumped at the chance. Once the tournament began, Tsuei’s job became a marathon 40-day road-trip. “Travel, transportation, hotel rooms, selecting a roster, getting the right equipment, making sure the team understands everything that’s going on—we touch upon everything,” he says.

Tsuei did manage to watch the team’s games, as did many others. Stadiums were packed, and when Chinese Taipei played Japan in the second round about half of the Taiwanese population watched on TV. In Japan, that broadcast was the highest-rated program of the year, “beating the Olympics,” Tsuei says with pride.

While the largest international tournaments draw viewers by the thousands, in most countries baseball remains a niche sport—which brings us back to Petah Tikva and the European Baseball Championship qualifiers. The match-ups between Israel and Great Britain in Tel Aviv drew slightly more than 1,400 spectators over the course of three games.

Pitching for Israel, Stevens incurred a tough loss in the first game. Smith—still the holder of the Pomona-Pitzer single-season E.R.A. record—threw eight dominant innings in the final game. “We got to talk afterward, so they talked a little bit of trash,” Stevens says, laughing. Undeterred, he’s looking forward to playing with the Israeli team again sometime in the future.

They don’t know it, but Pomona Economics Professor Gary Smith is the big-league ballplayers’ best friend in academia. That’s especially true for the superstars, the future hall of famers, the kind of guys who make the cover of Sports Illustrated. Truth is, the Joe Mauer crowd should be hoisting Smith on their shoulders and pouring champagne over his head. The professor has done them something better than clinch a pennant. He has added years to their very lives!

In his paper, “The Baseball Hall of Fame is Not the Kiss of Death,” Smith has debunked research that purported to show getting into Cooperstown would shorten a player’s life expectancy. He also has taken apart a study that suggested major league players with names that start with “D” die younger than others. (Derek Jeter really should send Smith a fruit basket.) Ditto for another piece of research that concluded players with negative initials (think ASS) die younger than players with positive initials (think ACE).

And what about the so-called Sports Illustrated cover curse? Smith offers a perfectly logical explanation for the phenomenon in which players who get on the cover see a drop-off in performance soon after—and it has nothing to do with a true deterioration in skills.

Smith, whose classes include economic statistics, draws on baseball because the sport offers such a large and well-defined body of data to work with. The problem, he says, is that tempting treasure trove of data also can be “ransacked” by researchers.

“You look at it enough, you’ll find patterns,” he says. “They just ransack the data and come up with something a little off and they come up with these ridiculous things.”

The methodological flaws Smith found in the aforementioned studies vary. In the case of the Hall of Fame research, the study drew upon a database of every known big league player, but in cases where there was no death date listed, researchers assumed the player was still alive (though, in reality, that was not always the case). The snag: For hall of famers, in contrast to lesser-known players, death dates are almost always known. That fact alone skewed the research.

Assessing the good/bad initials study, Smith found the results were invalidated by “selective inclusion of initials in a very small database.” As for the letter “D”-early demise research, Smith noted that the study was based on selective data, and that it didn’t hold up under a “valid test applied to more comprehensive data from the same source.”

If those studies were easy outs for Smith, the Sports Illustrated cover curse brings up the meatier statistical issue of regression to the mean. Simply put, you get on the cover at a time when you are doing your very best, and then “the only place to go is down,” explains Smith, the Fletcher Jones Professor of Economics.

“The fallacy is to conclude that the skills of good players and teams deteriorate,” Smith writes in his upcoming book, Duped By Data: How We Are Tricked Into Believing Things That Simply
Aren’t True. “The correct conclusion is that the best performers in any particular season generally aren’t as skillful as their lofty records suggest. Most had more good luck than bad, causing that season’s performance to be better than the season before and better than the season after—when their place at the top is taken by others.”

The misunderstood phenomenon of regression to the mean, writes Smith, is “one of the most fundamental sources of error in human judgment, producing fallacious reasoning in medicine,
education, government and, yes, even sports.”

Baseball is only one field of play for Smith’s research. The prolific professor has also taken on topics ranging from stock ticker symbols to poker players’ “hot hands” to measuring and
controlling shortfall risk in retirement. But with so much data available over so many years, the national pastime is one research realm he keeps going back to, even if he’s not big on watching the old ball game. “I’m more of a statistics fan,” Smith says.